The Good Doctor
by GenuinelyEnigmatic
Summary: And so, sometimes, John decides to think about the man he lives with. And, then again, sometimes John decides that he is Very-Much-Not-Thinking-At-All of a certain Mr Sherlock Holmes...
1. Chapter 1

John Watson had never questioned his intelligence before. Not really. Sure, there were moments when he had done stupid things, said stupid things, condoned stupid things and enjoyed stupid things immensely. Not once in his life, however, did he ever think of himself as drastically unintelligent.

Then he met Sherlock Holmes.

He met Sherlock and Holmes and suddenly everything he'd ever done seemed unbelievably dim. Oh, not boring. No, he would never have called Afghanistan boring. Things that cause nightmares like that are very rarely boring, in John's experience. Everything from before did, however, seem slow, undefined and somehow... fuzzy.

Sherlock Holmes brings his life and his world into focus - a focus so sharp that it makes John wonder about accelerant drugs. He thinks maybe he could see the attraction now. Sherlock is John's version of speed – a stimulant that can keep you awake and jumping about like a nutter for hours, that was Sherlock, to a Tee.

John tries not to think about that drug thing too much. It reminds him too much of those vampire books that his sister likes. John tries not to think about his sister too much. Nor has he ever really appreciated sparkles -he's a Matte finish kind of bloke. That and calling Sherlock his own personal drug sounds silly.

So he only thinks it, sometimes, and it still sounds silly.

So John only ever calls Sherlock "his personal kind of drug" in his head. When Sherlock's not looking. Sherlock has a tendency to pick up on things like that.

Things like John smiling like an idiot.


	2. Chapter 2

John often finds himself wondering just _why_ he follows Sherlock the way he does.

Yes, Sherlock makes him feel alive. Yes, Sherlock lives dangerously and yes – _OhgodYES! – _it makes him feel so _real... _but that's not Sherlock himself, is it? It's his lifestyle, the _way _he lives, not just the fact that he's alive.

John tells himself that's what it is - that the racing heartbeat, adrenalin and fierce anticipation all come from the _way_ that Sherlock and – by default now – John live. Of course it does - the running, the mysteries, the running, the borderline illegal activity, the running, the life-threatening situations and the running - all perfectly reasonable causes for the accelerated heart-rate, irregular sleeping patterns and inability to maintain any kind of long-term romantic relationship.

John can usually believe this. Usually.

He tries not to think that the only reason he can _usually _believe this is because he and Sherlock are _usually _running or engaging in borderline illegal activity or getting almost-shot or running. Usually.

John Absolutely-Does-Not-Think about how he feels when he and Sherlock just sit. Well, John sits, Sherlock tends to bounce. Even when he's perfectly still, Sherlock bounces.

John Absolutely-Never-Ever-Does-Not-Think (and-how-could-you-suggest-such-a-thing?) about all the times that Sherlock's bouncing-but-not-bouncing makes him laugh. Nor does he think about all the times that Sherlock's thinking at the window - staring off into numbers, words and pictures that only Sherlock can see- makes him smile.

And he really doesn't think about all the times that Sherlock's refusal to eat, his inability to sleep and his total lack of power to _understand_ absolutely breaks John's heart.


	3. Chapter 3

Moriarty scares John more than anything.

He's never seen Sherlock like this. The consulting detective has been puzzled, irritated, infuriatingly arrogant and, on rare occasions, challenged.

This is different.

James Moriarty is _different. _

He's quick and he's dangerous and he's clever. He is oh _so __**clever...**_ He's as clever as Sherlock, John thinks. And if not as clever, then close enough that to John it doesn't matter. The Troposphere and the Thermosphere might be miles and miles away from each other, but there far enough away from John that the distance looks small by comparison. It doesn't matter to John who's cleverer, not really. The only thing that really matters is what Moriarty does to Sherlock. And Moriarty does do _something... _Even if John doesn't know quite what it is, he's knows that it's there. And he hates it.

It comes to a crux at the swimming pool. It's terrifying, the echoes, the taunts, the goddamn _**bomb... **_John thinks that they'll die this time. Doesn't see how they won't, not this time. His death doesn't bother him too much. Sherlock's does. He'd like to trust the detective to get them out... but he doesn't think he can. Not this time.

Because Moriarty is good. So goddamn _good_...

They leave because Jim Moriarty lets them, not because of Sherlock, not this time. They _live _because Jimmy decided he wanted to play another day...

It scares the hell out of John. More than he's ever let Sherlock know - he never will let him know.

If there's one thing John Watson can hide from Sherlock Holmes, it's his feelings.


	4. Chapter 4

One day, John has a dream about Sherlock.

He'd barely slept the night before, spending time with his girlfriend. His _ex-_girlfriend. They were trying to patch things up, John laughs bitterly on his way home when he thinks about it. He wonders why she dragged Sherlock into it. Then he tells himself not to be stupid. He knows exactly why she dragged Sherlock into it. He doesn't look too far into it though. He doesn't want to do that yet, not yet.

It doesn't surprise him that the coffee he drinks back at the flat isn't enough to keep him awake. Sherlock's gone out so John just curls up on the couch, telling himself he'll just rest his eyes for a second then he'll brave the horrors of the fridge and try and make lunch.

He wakes up at three in the afternoon, five hours after falling asleep. He wakes up sweating. He wakes up screaming.

Once he's aware enough he realises that Sherlock's come back to the flat, and the man is staring at him. Hypnotising with those ice-blue eyes.

Sherlock asks him if it was Afghanistan again.

John blinks, for a split second of thinking time, thinking of his dream. Thinking about the images that seemed to be burned into his eyelids. Sherlock at the pool. Sherlock with Moriarty. Sherlock, face down in the water. Sherlock getting turned into a sieve by the bullets. Sherlock _bleedingbleedingbleeding..._

John finishes blinking and looks up at Sherlock, looking into those ice-blue eyes.

He tells the detective that it was Afghanistan.


	5. Chapter 5

When Irene Adler got involved, John got angry.

He didn't mean to, he certainly didn't want to and he didn't want it to happen again, but it happened.

He wasn't angry at first, of course, not really. At first he simply had no idea where to look.

No, at first she was simply, what Sherlock would call, interesting. Dangerous, yes, of course, but in an easy, manageable way. A way which meant you might lose your liver, your dignity and possibly your wallet.

Then she got dangerous in a less manageable way. She got dangerous because she started playing certain games with a certain consulting detective and, for once in his life, Sherlock played back.

He pretended he didn't, he pretended very well. If John didn't pay attention to every little thing that Sherlock does (not-that-he-does) he might not have noticed. He pretends he hasn't, Sherlock would prefer that. And John Watson does what Sherlock Holmes prefers. Every damn time.

Of course then Irene Adler dies, and Sherlock stops bothering to pretend he doesn't care. And John has no idea what to do and that _hurts..._

When Irene Adler decides she isn't dead John gets furious.

He didn't mean to but he certainly doesn't mind this time. This woman hurt Sherlock. For months he's been grieving, pining and absolutely insufferable.

John thinks that this woman should suffer through an insufferable Sherlock too, share some of that around. Til he realises that would mean that she'd have to get near Sherlock for any length of time in order _to_ suffer through him... John changes his mind.

John doesn't get angry when Mycroft tells him that Irene Adler is actually dead this time. He doesn't get anything much. At first he feels slightly worried - worried for Sherlock. Later, after he tells Sherlock he'll never see her again, he just feels hollow. He wonders why for a while but then he decides he might not like the answer, so he stops wondering for a while.

It's only when he's staring at Sherlock one day that he thinks he might know.

Sherlock didn't react. He didn't react at all to the fact that he'll never see Adler again.

It makes John wonder if that's what Sherlock will do if he ever leaves him.

It crosses his mind to ask the detective, he wonders what Sherlock would say... but then he decides he might not like the answer, so he stops wondering for a while.


	6. Chapter 6

The realisation that John might be in love with Sherlock hits him like a tonne of bricks.

He sits on the couch, thanks God that Sherlock isn't in, and has a mild panic attack.

When he thinks about it, he supposes that it's been coming for a while. Sherlock _does _do something ridiculous to his brain, he's always known that. He just didn't think it was so... what's the word... deep? Intense? Sheer bloody frightening? He has no damn clue. None at all. So, John closes his eyes, puts his head in his hands and _thinks..._

He wasn't properly alive til he met Sherlock. Tick. He already knows that. Afghanistan barely counts in comparison.

They can laugh. Sherlock doesn't laugh with anyone except John, not really. Tick. He already knows that one too and it always makes him feel special. _That feeling, _John thinks, should have been a small tip off.

Sherlock is arrogant, rude, over-bearing, inconsiderate, unable to interact properly with humans, far too intelligent and Absolutely Infuriating...

And John doesn't give a toss. _That, _he reckons, should have been a slightly bigger tip off.

He thinks it's funny that the realisation only struck because a small man who ran a pub, who was dating a big man with a beard who ran a pub, asked him if his boyfriend was a snorer.

John asked for some more crisps.

It wasn't the assumption that he and Sherlock were dating. That happens a lot and John's _kind of _used to it. It's more the fact, John's decides, that John _didn't _know if Sherlock snored when he slept. And he rather decided that he would like to.

When that thought crossed John's mind, he ran from it as if it was a hell hound itself.

And then, eventually both John and Sherlock got home, Sherlock left and John has a small breakdown on the sofa.

Because John _doesn't _understand why, he doesn't understand how and he sure as hell doesn't understand What The Hell Indeed he's meant to do now. He doesn't think a manic mixture of laughing and crying will really do it.

When Sherlock walks through the door half an hour later, John gets up, makes them tea, sits down again and asks Sherlock what on earth he was thinking when he ran off like that.

John really doesn't know what he's meant to do now. He figures he'll work it out. He figures he has more than enough time for that.

After all, he thinks, it's not as if Sherlock will ever really notice.

It's not really what he does when it comes to John.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock Holmes dies.

Sherlock Holmes dies. And so does John Watson.

Not literally. No, nothing as kind as that. But he _does _die, somewhere, inside, in that secret place where Sherlock Holmes lived within John Watson. He doesn't live there anymore, John makes sure of that. Having the dead man live there would be too painful. So it's filled with something like concrete now, filling the void that the detective left. Making it so heavy. Every day, so goddamn, _fucking __**heavy...**_

He tells himself, over and over and over again, that he can get through this, he's lost friends in the war. He can handle this.

He repeats the mantra over and over and again. And he survives. He walks on. He walks until he breaks.

He breaks when he realises that he knows, deep down, that's it not the same. Nothing was ever the same with Sherlock. He was just so much _more... _Sherlock was friendship and Sherlock was love and Sherlock was _home. _John's lost everything that could have been. Everything that _might have _happened with them... He guesses he'll never know now.

Sometimes he likes to hope that it might have worked itself out. Somehow. At night, instead of sleeping, John dreams and wishes and cries and _hopes_...

Sometimes the hoping makes him smile through those tears.

Sometimes the hoping makes the concrete so heavy he can't help but fall down. Pulls him down like gravity pulls down a sheet of glass. Pulling and pulling and pulling until it hits the earth... Shattering, crashing, _breaking _on impact...

John Watson breaks oh so many times.

He breaks, he cries, he picks the pieces of himself up off the floor, tapes them together as best he can and he begins to learn to walk again.

He walks until he breaks.

* * *

><p><strong>Soooo... I think that's about it with this one. Think I'll do a sequel if and when inspiration strikes... Here's hoping. <strong>

**Thanks to everyone who bothered to read it, to add it to their story alerts and everyone who was kind enough to review :)**


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